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LV.

But what most showed the vanity of life
Was to behold the nations all on fire,

In cruel broils engaged, and deadly strife;
Most Christian kings, inflamed by black desire,
With honourable ruffians in their hire,
Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour;
Of this sad work when each begins to tire,

Then sit them down just where they were before,
Till, for new scenes of woe, peace shall their force restore.

Next follow sketches of some among the thousands who dwelt in the Castle of Indolence, each taken from a friend of Thomson's, except one written by Lord Lyttelton to represent Thomson himself. The first of them, not easily traced to its original, suggested to Wordsworth an imitation in the character of his friend Coleridge, written in a copy of Thomson's "Castle of Indolence."

LVII.

Of all the gentle tenants of the place, There was a man of special grave remark; A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face, Pensive, not sad; in thought involved, not dark; As soot this man could sing as morning lark, And teach the noblest morals of the heart: But these his talents were yburied stark; Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, Which or boon nature gave, or nature-painting art.

LVIII.

To noontide shades incontinent he ran, Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound; Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began, Amid the broom he basked him on the ground, Where the wild thyme and camomile are found; There would he linger, till the latest ray Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound; Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray, Sauntering and slow. So had he passéd many a day.

LIX.

Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past:
For oft the heavenly fire, that lay concealed
Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast,
And all its native light anew revealed:
Oft as he traversed the cerulean field,

And marked the clouds that drove before the wind,
Ten thousand glorious systems would he build,
Ten thousand great ideas filled his mind;

But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind.

LX.

With him was sometimes joined, in silent walk
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke),
One shyer still, who quite detested talk:
Oft, stung by spleen, at once away he broke,
To groves of pine, and broad o'ershadowing oak:
There, inly thrilled, he wandered all alone,
And on himself his pensive fury wroke,

Ne ever uttered word, save when first shone

The glittering star of eve-"Thank heaven! the day is done."

That last stanza was designed as a sketch of Dr. Armstrong, author of a poem on "The Art of Preserving Health." A joyous and a thoughtful spirit are next painted as chance visitors; they were sketched, one from John Forbes, son of Duncan Forbes of Culloden, the other from Lord Lyttelton, who wrote, except the first line, this stanza to represent Thomson himself.

LXVIII.

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems;
Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,
On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes,
Poured forth his unpremeditated strain;
The world forsaking with a calm disdain,
Here laughed he careless in his easy seat;
Here quaffed, encircled with the joyous train,
Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet

He loathéd much to write, ne caréd to repeat.

Then followed a divine, the crowd of idle coffeehouse politicians, and the languid beauties; and with a stanza of his own Thomson then introduced, to close his First Canto, a recital in four stanzas of the diseases that afflict the indolent, who, when they become diseased and loathsome, end their days uncared These for in a place deep, dreary, underground. stanzas were written for "The Castle of Indolence" at Thomson's request by his friend Dr. Armstrong. So ends the First Canto of the poem. The Second Canto tells how in Fairy Land the vigorous Selvaggio was father, and Poverty mother, to a boy.

VII.

Amid the greenwood shade this boy was bred, And grew at last a knight of muchel fame, Of active mind and vigorous lustyhed, The Knight of Arts and Industry by name : Earth was his bed, the boughs his roof did frame; He knew no beverage but the flowing stream; His tasteful well-earned food the sylvan game, Or the brown fruit with which the woodlands teem: The same to him glad summer, or the winter breme.

The growth of the boy is so told as to typify the elements of culture for the race of man. Minerva with the Muses aiding in his education,

X.

Sometimes, with early morn, he mounted gay
The hunter steed, exulting o'er the dale,
And drew the roseate breath of orient day;
Sometimes, retiring to the secret vale,

Yclad in steel, and bright with burnished mail,
He strained the bow, or tossed the sounding spear,
Or darting on the goal, outstripped the gale,
Or wheeled the chariot in its mid career,

Or strenuous wrestled hard with many a tough compeer.

XI.

At other times he pried through Nature's store, Whate'er she in the ethereal round contains, Whate'er she hides beneath her verdant floor, The vegetable and the mineral reigns;

Or else he scanned the globe, those small domains

Where restless mortals such a turmoil keep, Its seas, its floods, its mountains, and its plains; But more he searched the mind, and roused from sleep Those moral seeds whence we heroic actions reap.

XII.

Nor would he scorn to stoop from high pursuits Of heavenly truth, and practise what she taught: Vain is the tree of knowledge without fruits! Sometimes in hand the spade or plough he caught, Forth calling all with which boon earth is fraught; Sometimes he plied the strong mechanic tool, Or reared the fabric from the finest draught; And oft he put himself to Neptune's school, Fighting with winds and waves on the vexed ocean pool.

So trained, he left his woods to civilise a barbarous world.

Earth was till then a boundless forest wild;
Nought to be seen but savage wood, and skies;
No cities nourished arts, no culture smiled,

No government, no laws, no gentle manners mild.

Sir Industry crowned his toil by civilising Britain; "here, by degrees, his master-work arose." When his work was established he made his own home on a farm by the Dee.

XXIX.

But in prime vigour what can last for aye?
That soul-enfeebling wizard Indolence,

I whilom sung, wrought in his works decay.
Spread far and wide was his cursed influence;
Of public virtue much he dulled the sense,
E'en much of private; ate our spirit out,
And fed our rank luxurious vices: whence
The land was overlaid with many a lout;

Not, as old fame reports, wise, generous, bold, and stout.

ΧΧΧ,

A rage of pleasure maddened every breast;
Down to the lowest lees the ferment ran;
To his licentious wish each must be blessed,
With joy he fevered, snatch it as he can.

Thus Vice the standard reared; her arrier-ban
Corruption called, and loud she gave the word,
"Mind, mind yourselves! why should the vulgar man,
The lacquey be more virtuous than his lord?
Enjoy this span of life! 'tis all the gods afford."

XXXI.

The tidings reached to where, in quiet hall,
The good old knight enjoyed well-earned repose :
"Come, come, sir knight! thy children on thee call;
Come, save us yet, ere ruin round us close!
The demon Indolence thy toils o'erthrows."
On this the noble colour stained his cheeks,
Indignant, glowing through the whitening snows
Of venerable eld; his eye full speaks

His ardent soul, and from his couch at once he breaks.

XXXII.

"I will," he cried, "so help me, God! destroy That villain Archimage."-His page then straight He to him called; a fiery-footed boy,

Benempt Dispatch :-"My steed be at the gate:
My bard attend; quick, bring the net of fate."
This net was twisted by the sisters three;
Which, when once cast o'er hardened wretch, too late
Repentance comes; replevy cannot be

From the strong iron grasp of vengeful destiny.

XXXIII

He came, the bard, a little druid wight,
Of withered aspect; but his eye was keen,
With sweetness mixed. In russet brown bedight,
As is his sister of the copses green,

He crept along, unpromising of mien.
Gross he who judges so. His soul was fair,

Bright as the children of yon azure sheen!
True comeliness, which nothing can impair,
Dwells in the mind: all else is vanity and glare.

The knight went forth with Philomelus, his compi nion bard. They reached the valley of the Castle of Indolence, holding high discourse by the way. The Enchanter, though his countenance fell at their approach, used all his skill to win them with his castle gate, and the Knight of Industry did not stir, song. When the fascinated crowd sped through the the Enchanter darted on him swiftly; but the knight was ready, and at once threw over his enemy the net of fate. Then shrieked the inferior demons of the place, clouds rolled, and there was wailing as from cavern depths. But when the hubbub was hushed, Sir Industry bade his bard touch those in the vast crowd of victims who were not tainted at the heart.

XLVI.

The bard obeyed; and taking from his side,
Where it in seemly sort depending hung,
His British harp, its speaking strings he tried,
The which with skilful touch he deftly strung,
Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung.
Then, as he felt the muses come along,

Light o'er the chords his raptured hand he flung,
And played a prelude to his rising song:

The whilst, like midnight mute, ten thousands round him throng.

XLVII.

Thus, ardent, burst his strain.-"Ye hapless race,
Dire labouring here to smother reason's ray,
That lights our Maker's image in our face,
And gives us wide o'er earth unquestioned sway,
What is the adored Supreme Perfection, say?-
What, but eternal never-resting soul,

Almighty Power, and all-directing day;
By whom each atom stirs, the planets roll;

Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the whole.

XLVIII.

"Come, to the beaming God your hearts unfold!
Draw from its fountain life! 'Tis thence, alone,
We can excel. Up from unfeeling mould,
To seraphs burning round the Almighty's throne,
Life rising still on life, in higher tone,
Perfection forms, and with perfection bliss.
In universal nature this clear shown,

Not needeth proof: to prove it were, I wis,

To prove the beauteous world excels the brute abyss.

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LXI.

"Heavens! can you then thus waste in shameful wise, Your few important days of trial here ?

Heirs of eternity! yborn to rise

Through endless states of being, still more near

To bliss approaching, and perfection clear;

Can you renounce a fortune so sublime,

Such glorious hopes, your backward steps to steer, And roll, with vilest brutes, through mud and slime? No! no!-Your heaven-touched hearts disdain the sordid crime!"

LXII.

"Enough! enough!" they cried-straight, from the crowd,

The better sort on wings of transport fly :
As when amid the lifeless summits proud

Of Alpine cliffs where to the gelid sky

Snows piled on snows in wintry torpor lie,
The rays divine of vernal Phoebus play;

The awakened heaps, in streamlets from on high,
Roused into action, lively leap away,

Glad warbling through the vales, in their new being gay.

But the greater number of the victims of indolence resented the intrusion on their harmless rest.

LXV.

"Ye impious wretches," quoth the knight in wrath, "Your happiness behold!"-Then straight a wand He waved, an anti-magic power that hath, Truth from illusive falsehood to command. Sudden the landscape sinks on every hand; The pure quick streams are marshy puddles found; On baleful heaths the groves all blackened stand; And o'er the weedy foul abhorréd ground, Snakes, adders, toads, each loathsome creature crawls around.

the growth of this reaction there came clouds over the short day of poetical trifling, when subjects of verse were toys to be played with, and any idler who conceived himself a wit might also set up as a poet. When poetry ceased to be the most intense expression of man's interest in the essential truths of life, the owls and asses had much of the singing to themselves, and praised each other; for they all were critics. But we know what happened when the owl's theory of music was applied with all the owl's acuteness to a critical discussion of the nightingale. A critic of those days once said that there was more sense in the grunting of a pig than many times in the soliloquies of Shakespeare. Pope was indignant at the impertinences of these small critics and poets, and when he was himself passing, with the time in which he lived, to the themes touched in his Epistles, Satires, and "Essay on Man," he troubled himself to attack the idlers with a Dunciad. If Pope gratified personal pique by wasting words now and then in "The Dunciad" upon men who could hardly be considered writers, it is not fair to censure him for this without observing how clear he was kept by his true sense of Literature, from attack on men whose repute in their own time has been sustained in after-years. Gnats swarmed, and he made war on them. He might have left them to die with their day. The debasement of verse-literature had in some degree aided those larger influences of the time which were then causing our most energetic thinkers, such men as Defoe, Swift, Fielding, to write prose.

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The wretches in the opened lazar-house welcomed the sight again of sun and the green earth, and cursed the wizard, and asked plainly what hope was left for them, "Repentance does itself but aggravate our pains." Repentance, the knight taught them, lifts to nobler worlds; he waved his powerful wand, and the Charities descended. With the glad acclaiming train. of the rescued, the knight turned to his hall again, and left, with pity for their helpless state, alone with their unveiled wretchedness, those who had scorned the day of grace.

The Castle of Indolence, when Thomson's poem appeared, was being attacked throughout Europe with more or less energy, and its hidden wretchedness laid bare. The idleness and empty affectations of self-satisfied men, blind to the miseries about them, who brought contempt on the administration of both Church and State; the lounging fopperies of that form of society which Pope satirised in "The Rape of the Lock," were summoning to arms the intellect of Europe. At the French Revolution Europe's Castle of Indolence fell before a power irresistible as that which Thomson figured in his parable, and disclosed as thoroughly its hidden wretchedness. The time suggested Thomson's allegory. The note of reaction runs through it. With

OWL AND Ass.

From the Frontispiece to the First Editions of "The Dunciao."

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